


overflow

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, but I'll be in good company, we need a ship name, yeah going to hell or whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 21:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17312060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Sometimes, Hilda wishes she could turn her back on the mortuary business.





	overflow

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I wanted to write something angsty? I've got like three or four different H/Z fics going right now and I finally made myself pick one and finish it. (Thanks, CAOS, for helping me through depression AND writer's block!) Comments seriously feed the muse, so please let me know what you think!

Of all the ways she’s died, Hilda hated drowning the most. She’d been in the bath, hadn’t even heard Zelda enter, when strong, pale hands pushed her beneath the surface of the honeysuckle-scented water. She’d been able to see the blind rage in her sister’s eyes as she struggled and thrashed to free herself. The hard, blue-green glint of Zelda’s stare was the last thing Hilda saw as the life left her body. 

The scent of honeysuckle still makes her sick. 

Hilda knows that she has a unique relationship with death; not many witches have their very own Cain pit for the murderous impulses of older sisters. She’s lost count of how many times she’s died. A lifetime ago she kept a diary detailing every incident, her round, loose script detailing how, on the 8th of August of one such year, Zelda poisoned her raspberry tart because she’d bumped into her that morning, and on the 17th of March of another year, Zelda had strangled her with her very own hair ribbon because Hilda made better marks in astronomy. 

Zelda had found that diary and tossed it into the fire. It was the first time Hilda can remember seeing her sister cry. 

It had made perfect sense to Zelda that they should spend a large part of the Spellman family fortune to buy the mortuary, though she’d had the good sense not to tell Hilda that her familiarity with dying would give her an edge over competing funeral parlors. It made economic sense for other reasons, the foremost being that the coven’s numbers had never recovered after the Greendale witch trials, and they could simply no longer afford to work as midwives. 

It had rankled for Hilda to admit that she had a knack for the mortuary business. She’d always believed that her sunny disposition made her a natural midwife, and she did not want to admit that these qualities would be an asset in the business of death. She was gifted in the way she handled the bereaved, had a certain knack for carrying the weight of all that grief in a way Zelda could not. It had given Hilda a thrill to be good at something that Zelda wasn’t. 

Outside of their bedroom, Hilda has never felt more powerful than her sister than she does in the mortuary. 

There are times, however, when Hilda wishes she could turn her back on it all. 

Blue eyes linger on the small casket in the corner of the room, large enough to hold the body of a twelve-year-old human. Her heart aches. 

It’s never easy when children are involved -- especially not when they are boys with a likeness to Edward. She’d take a thousand more deaths if it meant that this child, this poor boy, taken before his time by a senseless, preventable accident on the pond, could live.

He would have been terrified, just as Hilda had been, just as her friend Virginia must have been.

She feels frayed, raw, unmoored.

Hilda turns toward the window, watching as the grieving parents get into their Buick and back down the drive. Tears prickle at her eyes, and she blinks them away. Crying isn’t what she needs right now. 

“The Millers have decided on a closed casket,” Zelda says, pausing in the doorway. “Hilda?” 

The younger witch turns around, fingers curling into fists at her sides. “Come in. Lock the door, sister.” 

Zelda meets her gaze, her eyes darkening, before she nods. 

There is a certain routine to this now. Some deaths are harder than others. Sometimes they need more than whiskey and a good cry. 

Hilda is turning over the photograph of the dead child as Zelda rounds the desk, and then Hilda’s hands are filled with nothing but strawberry blonde hair as they kiss, desperate to anchor themselves to each other. Hilda nips at Zelda’s bottom lip and the older witch groans. Hilda tightens her grip and pushes her body against her sister’s, swallowing the delighted groan as Zelda’s hips are pinned against their grandfather’s desk. Hilda presses against her, driving her hips against Zelda’s as she kisses her way along the curve of her jaw. 

Hilda pulls back suddenly, gripping her sister’s hips as she spins her around, pressing her pelvis against the desk. One hand pushes against Zelda’s back, encouraging her to bend over the top of the desk as the other hand rucks up the full skirt of her dress. 

Zelda hisses as she realizes what Hilda is about to do, and it’s all the encouragement she needs for Hilda to pull aside the wet fabric of her underwear, slide her fingers between swollen, wet folds, and slip hard inside.

The older witch groans, and the sound is enough to make Hilda throb between her legs. She uses her hips to drive her fingers in deeper, her free hand gripping at the pale, creamy swell of Zelda’s hip. She can’t get enough of her; she wants her always, whether Zelda kisses or kills. Her sister bucks back against Hilda’s fingers, and Zelda’s muffled _“harder, sister, please”_ makes Hilda moan. A third finger presses inside and she grabs that copper hair, tugging hard and then Zelda is coming, riding out her pleasure until Hilda’s wrist burns so good. 

They pant in unison, hearts pounding as the clenching around Hilda’s fingers subsides. Zelda hisses as Hilda pulls back her fingers, and then Zelda is turning around and pushing Hilda down onto the bench they share. 

_Oh, Satan,_ Hilda thinks as Zelda is sinking to her knees, reaching beneath the yellow dress to find the top of Hilda’s purple tights and her cotton knickers. She takes care not to tear them as she guides them down her thighs. She abandons them at Hilda’s ankles, her attention focused instead on spreading Hilda’s thighs wide and pressing wet kisses to her sister’s knees. She sighs as Zelda kisses her way up her thighs, pausing to nibble the soft flesh. Hilda tilts her head back and groans when Zelda’s mouth presses a kiss against the lips between her legs. 

Though Zelda has not said as much, Hilda suspects that the older witch loves to go down on her. She fastens her mouth to Hilda’s cunt, committing the whole of her mouth to the younger woman’s pleasure. Lips work at her clit before her tongue swirls around her opening, pressing just inside before sweeping back up toward her clit. Hilda rolls her hips, unable to help herself; she is desperate for release, desperate to feel grounded in the world of the living. 

Zelda’s arms encircle her thighs, holding her firm against the bench, making Hilda breathless with wonder as Zelda proves that she is, in fact, quite attuned to Hilda’s needs. Oh, but then that vicious tongue is licking insistently at her clit in long, sweeping strokes and her thighs are beginning to tremble. When all of this is over, Zelda will have Hilda’s arousal all over her face, and she will be eager to kiss it off, but now she can’t focus on anything but the way Zelda’s tongue flicks against the head of her clit, and then she is coming. 

_Yes, Satan, yes,_ she is alive in this moment, she is here with Zelda, she is shattering apart with a bliss so intense that her toes curl. 

Zelda is whispering against her sex, words of love and reassurance and comfort. She is soothing her hands along Hilda’s thighs, carefully helping to reposition her tights and underwear back around her hips. She rises gingerly, far more gracefully than any women who has just been on her knees has any right to, and sits beside her sister. 

They are both looking at the casket when their hands find each other and fingers intertwine. Hilda’s bubblegum pink nail polish clashes with Zelda’s cobalt, but the visual soothes her racing heart. 

The casket is not hers. She is alive. She is loved. She will do what needs to be done for the boy and offer the comfort she never received to the boy’s parents. 

Hilda closes her eyes, tilting her head against Zelda’s shoulder. Zelda rests her own head against blonde curls.


End file.
